Poetry Boot Camp: On A Tour of Judd’s Studios

Our guide speaks – rapid-fire, animated – as she herds us
though the massive gate. Every angle of her face is illuminated;
she was born to lead this group of strangers though a sacred land.
To her, we are disciples.
He would have been appalled.

His wooden beds – one in every studio – speak of his insomnia,
and his manufactured spaces – negative, she says – sit frozen,
brilliant, in the Western light. After his divorce, he moved
into a nearby room; and lived his life with
ancient artifacts: rugs, and flint, and straw.

As his work is cataloged, and fondled, and turned into a shrine,
he watches from above, and smiles.